


Let You Walk Away

by SkinSlave



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Marilyn Manson - Fandom
Genre: Adorable, Artists, F/M, Hiding in Plain Sight, Kissing, Romance, Sharing, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 22:54:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16396640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: Two artists lower their masks and find themselves in each other.TW: sweetness, boyish charm, kissing, emotions.





	Let You Walk Away

If I had been 14, I would have locked myself in my room for a week, smearing eyeshadow across my entire face, lying under my bed, clutching my battered Walkman and weeping. It would have been the gravest injustice to ever happen to anyone ever and I would have been justified in lighting a church on fire and sitting in the flames, masturbating with a broken telegraph insulator.

As it was, I had left 14 and the freedom to throw spectacular, naked tantrums behind. The sheer juvenile excitement of seeing Manson's face above a date and time in my city slid into the despair of a woman with bills to pay and appearances to maintain. My heart screamed to give up groceries, let them take the car, anything for a new black lipstick and a backstage pass. Anything to feel something deeply and authentically mine.

He had been my salvation. He had taken my hand in a time when it wasn't ok to not be ok. He had shown me beauty and anger. And as I read his words, heard him speak, saw his art, I began to understand his complexity and depth. I wanted desperately to be near him. The thought of feeling his power and vulnerability sat on my back teeth and taunted me.

I couldn't hear anything from the house, despite being 3 miles away from the venue. A police patrol discouraged me from camping in a parking lot, straining to hear his voice. I resolved to sit at the closest bar instead, getting wine drunk and hating everything.

I kept an eye on my watch. The doors opened, the music started, the music ended, the breakdown started, the 14-year-old grunge sluts mobbed the rear exit. Every timestamp was another insult. I had planned to get smashed, but instead I sat in a bistro seat in front of the pub, nursing an ice water. I still hated everything.

It was an early concert. The kids had come from the venue, gotten drunk at the bar, and been thrown out for requesting Fight Song too many times. There was plenty of night left, but nobody was out. The bar's patio faced an open square. I stared at the sky and scribbled bad poetry in a notebook.

A few guys went in around midnight and I heard a familiar round of laughter, cheers and lyrics. I wanted to be a part of it so badly that I wanted to destroy it. I scribbled that thought down. I felt someone exit the bar and assumed it was a spoiled frat boy who could afford to be drinking on a Tuesday night.

"Hey, do you mind if I sit here?"

"Sure," I said without looking up. Why not have some random asshole stare at me for an hour?

"Thanks," he sighed as he slumped into the seat across from me. "I wasn't really digging the vibe in there."

"No problem."

I looked up to see a guy in sunglasses, a black shirt and a leather jacket. He had a glass in one ring-studded hand. He wasn't facing me, but I caught enough of his face to see his lipstick was spot-on.

"You look great," I admitted. "Did you see the show tonight?"

"No, but I heard it." He rubbed his face a little and cleared his throat. "I thought it was pretty good."

"I wanted to go, so bad. I just couldn't swing the cost." I leaned over to see his face a little better. "They should've let you in. Your look is perfect. They probably would've let you backstage."

He laughed and sipped his drink. I started to get a strange feeling, a fluttering in my stomach. I wasn't sure why. I had a vague idea that there was something off about this man. I tried to lean discretely to see him better, and failed.

"I'm Slave," I finally offered.

"Oh. Yeah, I'm..." he snickered, "uh, Brian."

"Fuck me."

It fell out of my mouth and I was immediately embarrassed, but he laughed and turned to face me. His wide grin seemed genuine, not at my expense. He was like a boy who'd gotten away with saying something naughty. I started to laugh too.

"Do you do that a lot?" I giggled. "Creep up on nice ladies in bars?"

"No. Actually, most people recognize me when I'm made up. I'm kind of offended that you didn't." His smirk told me he was joking.

"To be fair," I countered, "it's dark, and late, and fans have been coming in and out all night. You're not the only you in town today."

He laughed and took a drink. I rubbed my temples and chided myself for not recognizing his voice. No matter, he was in front of me now, and talking, and he was going to get every drop of my attention. I closed my notebook.

"No, no, no. Don't let me keep you from writing. Writing's important." He laid his hand halfway across the table, symbolically staying my hand.

"It's just shit poetry," I muttered. "Really, you sitting at my table and talking to me is the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. I can write anytime."

He cocked his head and took a drink. I was flush, ready to hang on his every word. He cleared his throat and took his sunglasses off.

"Read me something."

My heart skipped.

"No, no, it's really bad," I insisted, covering the notebook with my hands.

"Come on." He leaned forward. "Read me something you hate. Or what you just wrote. I want to hear it."

His grainy purr sat in my chest. I opened to the most recent page. I knew that I was about to make a fool of myself in front of the quintessential artist. But I couldn't disobey. I took a deep breath and just started reading.

"My flayed chest, my birdcage bare, misting my face. Skin and sewer, golem of cheap leather. Around me the hollow clicking of teeth, elite church of communication. I want it so badly I'm burning it down."

There was a minute of silence. A brick landed in my gut. I closed the notebook and turned it upside down. What was I thinking? I wasn't a writer. I opened my mouth to backpedal, but he filled it with words.

"I like it," he said softly, "and I'll tell you why. It's the relationship between the meat and bone of humanity and the desire for connection, and anger when you can't have that connection." He paused and rubbed his face, then leaned back. "Yeah, I like it."

I smiled a little wider than I intended to and whispered, "thank you."

He shrugged and took another drink. I took a moment to take in his dark eyes and lips, the soft line of his jaw. It was like looking at a piece of art. My gaze traced his Cupid's bow, the curve of his earlobe, stray hairs that glowed under the neon pub lights. I realized I had been staring for too long and looked down.

His hand was still on the table, a bridge, an openness.

"So, you're leaving in the morning? You have like a 4-hour drive to your next venue." It was lame and awkward, but I didn't know what else to say.

"Yeah... Maybe. I might spend another day here. I have a little time."

"Well, it's a nice city."

'City' was an overstatement. We had half the population of his next stop. You could walk most neighborhoods. There was usually parking. I often felt that I was living urban, but in a lot of ways my home was just a big town.

"It's a nice hotel." His reply made it clear that he didn't intend to mingle. Still, the thought that he would be nearby for a few more hours made my heart sing.

"I'm just really, really glad I got to meet you," I bubbled. "I was really in a shit mood that I missed the concert. I actually came here to get drunk and be pissed off. I usually don't like bars."

"You live close?"

"Yeah, just a couple of miles that way." I pointed over my shoulder. "I could've walked to the concert."

"You could walk to my hotel, then."

I slowly realized what he had said. My cheeks burned as I replied, "I guess so. But I doubt they'd let me camp in the parking lot."

He scoffed, "No, you come up. I'll let you in."

I shifted awkwardly in my seat and took a drink. I felt his eyes on me. I wished I'd dressed like I would've for the concert. Instead I was in a Hannibal t-shirt, jeans and barely any makeup. I looked so normal. I wasn't 14 with raw words in my gut. I'd grown up.

Marilyn finished his drink and waved toward the door, calling his entourage over.

"Let's say 5, tomorrow afternoon," he said casually, standing. "Write me something."

Two men came out of the bar and followed him as they walked toward the historic hotel a few blocks away. I watched until they turned a corner.

The kid in me kicked in and I switched seats. I picked up his glass and held it to my face. The glass was cold, the seat warm. I took a few deep breaths, wishing he wore cologne. I considered stealing the glass. A waiter came out and asked if he could take it out of my way.

I took my notebook and walked home. It was long and dark and strange. Had I fallen asleep at the table? Had I lived a fantasy in my head, staring into space outside a bar? By the time I slid into bed, I was almost convinced that I'd made the whole thing up. I slept and relived it in my dreams.

I woke up late, tired and weirded out. Breakfast had no taste. I couldn't feel the floor under my feet. His gentle baritone echoed in my head.

_Read me something you hate._

The words I thought I'd read were there in my notebook. I tore the page out and sat, just staring at it. Was this art? I made coffee and came back to it. I showered and came back to it. I took a walk and came back to it. I chewed my fingernails and tried to catch the truth of it. I finally dialed the pub, ready to put this fantasy to bed.

"Hey, this is gonna sound stupid," I said to the woman on the other end of the phone, "but was -"

"Yes, he was here," she interrupted. "He drank a High West with one ice cube, sat on the patio and left. He didn't punch anyone and he didn't fuck anyone. We don't know where he's staying. We don't have his number. Is there anything else?"

I was startled by her brusque laundry list of answers to questions I hadn't asked. To her, I was just another groupie who'd heard a rumor.

"No, that's... Ok... Thanks..." I was out of breath.

My phone beeped in my ear to let me know she'd hung up. I held it in place anyway, listening for some voice to tell me what to do.

_Write me something._

I panicked. Words were something I feared I hadn't really felt in so long. I scrawled out phrases and associations, seeds of feelings. None of it was real. Now I had a few hours to create something worthy of an artist.

I sat in my favorite chair with my notebook. I willed my pen to channel someone else's genius. I stared at the lines. I doodled. I prayed. I got up and paced. I cried. I laid on the floor. I offered my soul in exchange for words. I curled up and dozed off.

And I woke up with something in my throat. I clawed for my notebook and vomited the feeling. It was ugly and huge. I didn't know if it was any good, but it was mine and it was going to be his.

I resisted the urge to squeeze into a corset. He sat with the angry, invisible me. I didn't want to cover that up. A plain black shirt over jeans would be fine. I did let myself spend some time on my makeup. No sense in looking like I'd just rolled out of bed.

I left early and walked slowly. I noticed the turning leaves, the cracks in the sidewalk, the people. The closer I got, the more my stomach danced. Finally, I could see the hotel.

I had never been in the building. I knew the bricks were from the 1800s, the furnishings from Henredon, the rooms from $300 a night. It was a historic location with a big reputation. I didn't belong. I leaned against the wall around the corner from the door.

What if he was joking when he gave the invitation? What if he was drunk and didn't remember? What if he changed his mind? What if I had to walk right back home with a black hole in my heart?

I forced myself to go inside. It smelled like rosemary. The man in the lobby was wearing a jacket. He smiled at me but I wasn't sure what to say.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, my name is Slave. I'm here to see someone," I said awkwardly. "Marilyn. Marilyn Manson..." The last words sounded plastic.

"I'm not sure we have a guest by that name. Please have a seat." He smirked and gestured toward the wingback chairs in the center of the lobby.

I sat, crossing my ankles and looking up at the dahlia chandelier. I heard him speaking, too low for me to make out the words. I imagined he would come back with, 'there's no one here by that name,' a polite brush-off that would send me out the door while maintaining discresion. I jumped when I heard him speak.

"Right this way, Miss."

He had come out from behind the counter and was beckoning me to the elevator. I followed and we rode in silence to the third floor. When the doors opened, we stepped into a sliver of a hallway. The clerk knocked on the door at the end of the hall. After a long pause, the door opened about 3 inches. The clerk turned around and got back on the elevator.

I slowly pushed the door open, stepped inside and carefully closed it. The walls were a strange violet-grey, like dead lavender. From the nook by the door, I could see that the blinds were closed, but there was still quite a lot of light.

"Hey," came a familiar voice. "Come hang out with me."

I took a deep breath and stepped out of the alcove. Marilyn was sitting on the bed, propped up on a dozen pillows. His leather pants and black dress shirt were a stark contrast to the white linens. His face was bare.

"Can you believe this?" He pointed at the TV on the opposite wall. "That TV is so small, I might as well be looking at my phone. Ridiculous. I don't want to complain, though. They might buy me a TV."

I smiled and sat down on the faun bench at the foot of the bed. I set my purse on the floor and looked around. It was far nicer than any room I'd ever stayed in, spacious and full of leather and maple. It struck me that it was probably shabby in his eyes.

A springy thud made me jump and I turned to see that he had tossed himself on to the bed, face-down, beside me. His arms were folded under his head, just inches from my shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," he rasped. "But you looked alone down here... Do you have something for me?"

"Yes," I nodded. "Only it's probably awful. I overuse metaphors and florid words and it's probably really bad."

He looked into my face, into my eyes. His expression told me he was unimpressed by my self-deprecation. He brought a finger to his lips, then held his hand out in a 'give me' stance. I fished my notebook out of my purse and opened it. The bed shifted as he covered his eyes with his hands, blocking the light. I took a deep breath.

"You gave me a thing I didn't know that I needed,  
a lighthouse of flesh that wounds what it saves.  
I cling to your teeth. I need you to bleed me,  
to hold me, to drown me, distorted, depraved.  
The blueberry stain your grip leaves upon me,  
with bitter almond balm to sooth.  
You throw your glass into my ocean,  
the moon pulls and I lick them smooth.  
You've given me the guts, the tongue and the bullets.  
You've shredded my corpse with the games that you play.  
You've made me a thing that craves your abuse.  
I can't just let you walk away."

I held my breath. He was still, his eyes covered, his breathing imperceptible. His forehead crinkled one way, then the other. His lips twitched.

My brain was screaming. It was stupid. I should've dug out my best work, not some bullshit squeezed out on a deadline. The meter was off, the rhyme, the word choice, the entire fucking thought. I wanted to melt into the floor.

He sniffed and licked his lips.

"I like it," he hummed, "and I'll tell you why. It's lustful and demanding. It frames the transition from an artist who forces his audience to go beyond their limits to an audience that depends on an artist to keep them there. And it's sexy. And it's got some great visuals. Lighthouse of flesh. I like that."

I grinned like an idiot, a tear welling up from the mixture of fear and relief. I turned to stuff the notebook back in my purse, thinking I could discretely wipe my eye. But he touched my arm.

"Could I keep it? The poem, I mean. I'd like to have it."

"Of course," I said breathlessly, and tore the page out. As I did, the tear fell.

"Hey, you ok?" His voice was soft. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm fine. I just... I was so nervous that you'd hate it, and you were so nice... I'm ok, really."

"Well, I'm not blowing smoke up your ass, I really did like it. I should probably give you a job. You have no idea how many shitty things I've written."

We both smiled, and he covered his mouth with his fingers. He took the page I was holding, sat up and put it on the nightstand, using a lamp to weight it down. He rearranged his cushions and fell back on them.

"I'm gonna watch a movie. Come watch it with me."

I shucked off my boots and joined him on his mountain of pillows. He played two foreign films I never would have chosen. They were interesting and I let him talk about his views. He seemed to open more and more. He started to lean toward me as he spoke. He touched his mouth less and less. The more he purred and cleared his throat and smiled, the more attractive he became. I wanted to touch him so badly that I took a risk.

"Do you mind if I see the sigil tattoo on your hand?"

He shrugged and held it out. I slowly reached for it, giving him the chance to pull back. He didn't.

"I hate when people ask you why you do things," I said gently, tracing it with my finger. "Why do you have this tattoo? Why did you sing this lyric? Why do you use this imagery? You are who you are and you do what you do. It's up to us to figure out what that means for us. It's like asking a comet to explain itself as if the fact that we see it means it's beholden to us."

I raised my head and looked into his eyes, dark and beautiful. He wrinkled his brow. His mouth was nervous.

"I can't give you..." his voice trailed off.

"You don't need to give me anything. I don't expect anything."

In those moments, as cliche as it seemed, he was no longer my idol, my inspiration. He was a man on a lonely road, hunched under pressure, full of storms and questions. He was complicated and afraid of complication. He was heavy and afraid of weight.

I brought his hand to my face and kissed it, leaving a burgundy smudge. He examined it, as if he'd never seen anything like it. He turned away. It seemed I'd overreached. I got up and put my boots back on, grabbed my purse and headed toward the door. I realized that I'd left my notebook sitting on the bench. I turned back to get it.

"Wait."

I looked back at him, still sitting on the bed, still holding his hand like a strange object.

"I don't usually..." he mumbled.

"I know," I said gently, setting my purse down. I sat on the edge of the bed, my thigh inches from his. "You don't have to. You don't have to do anything. I'll stay as long as you want me to."

There was a long pause. He patted the spot on the bed where I had been sitting. I sat, and he took my hand. He looked at it, studied it, as though reading something. Then he brought it to his mouth and kissed it. My heart was pounding.

"Do you mind if we sit in the dark?" he asked.

"Not at all."

We each reached for our respective lamps and the room was bathed in shadow. Only a little bit of light from the businesses outside came through the closed blinds.

He held my hand for a long time, saying nothing. Then slowly, tenderly, he moved up my arm and across my shoulder. I could feel his fingers brush my neck and jawline. He sat up and carefully pulled me in for a kiss.

It was the sort of kiss you dream of one day feeling. It was soft and reverent. A light press became a stronger one, then a playful nip, then a passionate plunge. My hand followed the line of his arm to his cheek and I held him.

Every moment that I'd spent with his art fell away. That was what he made, but this was who he was. He was humble and resilient, self-scarred and isolated. He was soft. I gave him every freedom. He needed it. He needed to touch something that didn't come with conditions.

He kissed me for what felt like days. I bent to each one as if it were the first. His hands never roamed lower than my shoulders. He never implied I should do more than hold him. He was giving the most simple gift in exchange for the most basic pleasure, and that's all.

His kisses began to draw out with long pauses in between. Then with a heady breath, he gave the last one. He leaned back on the pillows, gathering me in his arms. I could feel his heartbeat, the swell of his breath. It was a perfect place.

"I want to say so many things," he whispered. "I don't know where to start."

"Tell me something you love. Or something you just thought."

"I can't give you what you deserve," he replied, stroking my hair, "but I couldn't just let you walk away."


End file.
